Liquid

Author’s note: I wanted to write something about knife kink. As often happens, it didn’t turn out like I expected.

I am liquid. I am a lake within the sandbars of my skin. Your hands mold me. When I have especially pleased you, your tongue is a wave that reshapes my dimensions.
It is only with you, this liquification. You touch me and I dissolve, I become a lolling head and limp arms and a torso you have to support with your hand pressed against my ribs, my breasts heavy swells just above your fingers.
You are the bedrock beneath my shifting form, the solidity of your chest giving support to my back as I lean against you. You lend me your legs, the inside curve of your feet giving definition to the outside of my own. Your hand and your chest give my body a boundary, the floor and your shoulder beneath the back of my head my vertical supports.
You do not have to tell me to stay still.

Once, I did not know it could hurt to be water. Since you, I understand the pain of rivulets running from a lake. A pool wants to be complete. It does not want to lose itself in these escaping dribbles. You carve a new channel in me and I can feel myself leaking, warm salted runnels following the trail you’ve created in my flesh.
A soft noise escapes me and your hand tightens against my ribs. I know why you have placed your hand there. We have done this before and I placed my own hand there once I had solidified again. I felt the beating of my heart, a steady pulsing beneath my fingers. When I am liquid for you you feel the thundering rush of the waters within me.
It burns with heat as you recreate me. I keep as still as I can, my breathing the tides going in and out.
You do not have to tell me to endure.

It is beautiful, this knife. It is so polished I can see myself within it when you hold it before my face. It is serrated along the inner edge, the tiny hard points of catfish teeth, but you have never used the edge on me. This is not about making me feel pain.
The tip of the gleaming black metal is so sharp it barely stings when it parts the skin of my belly. The new lines you create are sinuous and curving, a red stream that that takes a few seconds to overflow its banks. My waters course over my skin.
You do not need to tell me to give in.

I am grateful to be liquid for you, to be reborn and reshaped by your hands.